The Kingfisher's Song
by Fylkii
Summary: "Escort the reinforcement convoy to Haven forward operating base. Remember that you are guarding decades worth of our most important military innovation. Be prepared, and do try not to die, as failure is not an option. Good luck, Kingfisher Unit, but you probably won't need it." Military fiction set with Pokemon characters; notably Lucario, Gallade and Fearow.
1. 1

An incessant wind cut through the air as the evening sun retreated, the mixed spectrums of dusk projected onto the desert sands dancing into the enveloping night. Two figures stood firm against the falling darkness, and even as their silhouettes dissolved into the fading horizon they gave evident proof that the two were not ordinary civilians. The mild gusts appeared to be invigorated by the fleeing light. The fine sand under their boots swirled with growing force, picked up by the winds and thrown indiscriminately. Neither party gave complaint to the worsening conditions of the environment, nor did they have any reason to. The dust blowing against the adequate layers of their combat fatigues was simply an annoyance made relatively peripheral by years of combat conditioning training and even more of field deployment.

Both soldiers were well aware that actions, not complaints, solved issues. Wordlessly, the taller figure gave a curt nod of acknowledgement to his squadmate, who in return released his weapon and reached for a small cylindrical object fastened to his equipment. A small twist activated a chemical reaction within the device, and the emerging spark quickly blossomed into a vivid flame-like projection. This certain ChemFlare model was originally designed for long-term wilderness survival by unfortunate refugees of war, providing up to forty eight hours of light and heat, though ironically it saw more usage by the ones who fought the battles and displaced the civilians. The flare did not discriminate between its patrons however, and within minutes an adequate warmth pulsated from the source and brightly illuminated the area it was placed. This change in environments did not seem to reassure its user, who just as quickly shouldered his rifle and scanned his surroundings anxiously as he had done and in the darkness.

The other soldier seemed quite amused by his fellow sentry's tense behavior, and chuckled softly as he produced a small package from his pocket. The flare fought valiantly against the night in a victorious battle and proved it with an near-absolute illumination against its intangible foe. Its white light radiated in a respectable radius, though it met with different responses. The taller one seemed somewhat indifferent to the improvement but if not plainly contented. His height was noticeably greater, about a foot or so difference between the two. The high-grade torch revealed the advanced jet black, gray and blue battle dress colors standard to operatives of his company. Patches on his upper arm identified him as Owens, advanced field infantry, overwatch grenadier. Other military corporations unfamiliar with his particular designation tags could likely identify his battle position by the mixed explosive armament festooned on his belt as well as the underbarrel munition launcher attached to the belt-fed light machine gun that he carried so nonchalantly. His right shoulder region bore the insignia of his unit, a crimson bordered white fabric emblazoned with the broad outline of a menacing avian, its claws grasping both a silver halberd and a high-caliber tactical rifle. There was no doubt to the half-depleted contents of the package he held for either of them, but whether out of respect or politeness Owens found himself making a verbal offer regardless.

He held the open end of the case out to his field partner, and made an effort to keep his voice level and casual. "Care for a smoke?"

Through the sizzling of the flare Owens could naturally feel him scoff, an old expression of half skepticism, half implied ignorance. _"Are you asking the appropriate question?"_

A newer soldier would have certainly been puzzled by his response, less of the content but more of the tone of deliverance. He generally chose to communicate without an audible sound, yet they always managed to appear for those whom the words were directed. In a dark environment he appeared as a normal soldier despite his smaller build; his pack, equipment and rifle making it a completely valid and reasonable assumption. It would be the clarity of light that would reveal his affiliation through the special insignia, identical to the one on Owens and the rest of the troopers of his similarly named unit. His battle dress masked most identifying aspects of his build, the only visible evidence to his true species being a sleek canine snout, a series of odd appendages protruding from the base of his helmet and a tail of moderate length. His arm was decorated with a series of identification patches, though a Pokeball-esque shape was affixed where the soldier's rank would be and his tag only gave the codename of Echelon. Despite the known aura abilities of lucario and the effectiveness of them in trainer battle situations, usage of Pokemon as infantry units were not popular if not considered strictly taboo. Kingfisher Unit was not the task force to be concerned with public opinion, however, so they utilized whatever fighting force proved to be potent on the battlefield. The only problem that persisted was an internal issue, and many more Pokemon would see combat if they had not fled during the rigorous training courses. To make it to front lines, "drafted" individuals would not only need a skill set but a uninhibited personal dedication towards whatever cause drives mercenary forces; Echelon was no exception. His physical stature well correlated with his rare background; under the folds of his uniform he was considerably more bulky and fit than other lucario, as well as possessing a height not usually found in his species.

Owens never knew whether his fellow operative refused in a moral context or some other reason, though wisely chose not to press the matter. His thoughts soon were shattered by the sharp sounds of gunfire, though the distinct sounds of bullets whistling away from his position instinctively suppressed any unnecessary response except to flip down his dual-sensory vision, lower his profile, and slide his finger closer to the trigger. Echelon fired another controlled burst, the powerful tracer rounds leaving behind the faint scarlet trail as they streaked across the desert and harmlessly embedded themselves in the ground with a noticeable spray of fine sand. This time it was Owens to raise an eyebrow in skepticism as he observed the intended target burrow out of harm's crosshairs. "Was that really a threat?"

Echelon spat quite audibly, a human trait that he had picked up through the observation of his buddies. _"A damned nuisance, that's what it was. The world wouldn't miss it."_

Owens chose not to comment on the accuracy-related pun. He knew the problems that diggersby had caused since their unplanned introduction to the ecosystem, and likewise didn't hold any objections against putting tungsten into those mutant rabbits. But Echelon didn't openly communicate often, and Owens hoped for a conversation to avoid the clutches of boredom. "But was it _really_ a threat?"

 _"Directly? I'm not sure, and honestly I don't care. By the time it gets in reach to inflict any significant damage on its own it'll have to deal with a damn large hole in its chest. They probably don't even have enough discipline to attack us in a swarm."_

"Always analyzing, aren't you?"

Echelon took on a thoughtful expression, then chuckled inwardly. _"Coulda been an agent. Opponents often get desperate against an infamous enemy. Next day we wake up, find ourselves knee deep in our own shit because I missed a mutant rabbit spy who managed to compromise our whole operation. Indeed."_

"You think it noticed us?"

 _"Probably not. It noticed the bullets, the impending death, and regardless of whether they hit or not I trust that those_ _ **animals**_ _have enough survival instinct to not pop their heads out again."_

" _Those_ are animals? You do realize that you-"

Owens abruptly stopped when he noticed the lucario glaring at him. The angry gleam in his eyes reflected into his unusually spiteful tone. _"Do_ _ **not**_ _call me an animal. Do you think that I enlisted, on my own decision, to be regarded as an animal in a battlefield of men? We both know of the crimes we see in the midst of war. Civilian deaths. Atrocities. Rape. Soldiers cannot be saints, and those who commit the crimes deserve to be executed as animals. But to regard me as one because of my species, simply put, pisses me off. We are all born animals, though_ _ **some**_ _have the convenient benefit of civilized society. How I think and act that discerns me from any primitive Pokemon, and I'd hope you would notice by now. No trainer-pampered, spoiled Pokemon will ever understand the sweat of having to trek miles after miles without the comfort of a Pokeball or the sustenance of a hand-fed food source. You think they can last in a battlefield their foes attack to kill? The only battlefield they know is one in which they are useless without orders and the loving hand that feeds. Their idea of characters is to have no self discipline or strict training, with the only consequences of failure being masked by the effortless recovery from the superficial wounds their adversaries may inflict. I'd just as soon kill myself than be affiliated with those scum."_

Owens had no immediate response, though inside he knew that Echelon was correct. The term Echelon was so militaristic; outside his codename it seemed that he had no personal identity, an issue that simply couldn't be solved. A period of silence hung for a long moment between the two. Owens took the time to light his cigar in the respite of discussion and breathed in a deep wisp of the chemical smoke. His exhaling breath to clear the arid gas betrayed a sincere sigh of resignation. "I'm sorry, Ech."

Echelon shook his head, the anger in his eyes fading as quickly as it appeared. _"The fault was mine. I lost control. In shouldn't have gotten angry over such a petty matter. I behaved like an animal. It is me who should be a apologizing."_

The tactful course of action would be to leave the conversation at this note, and both silently agreed to do so. Owens was content with with enjoying his cigarette, the wisp of smoke slowly rising and drifting with the breeze. Echelon amused himself with the crisp click that echoed from the interior of his rifle as he repeatedly cycled his fire switch through single, burst, auto and safety. It is in this state of unawareness that causes time to pass in seemingly accelerated rates, and even even the lucario found himself lowering his guard despite the usual threat of enemy marksmen. Although he chose not to use any extrasensory equipment, Echelon knew that the multipurpose optics that were issued to his unit were by far superior to any other known technology. With an passive sensor range of about a mile and an active zooming capacity of just short of two, Owens could easily cover any negligence on his comrade's fault. Of course, if a threat did present itself at those ranges it would be safely distanced from any return fire; moving, aware targets just happen to be more difficult to cleanly pick off in such conditions, and Echelon felt no need to even consider such a risk. The small critter that had escaped his bullets would bother him more than hostile sharpshooters. Nonetheless,Echelon glanced over his shoulder, noting the distant flares that not only illuminated the makeshift camp in which his unit lay dormant but brought to reality the high-risk task that they were assigned. They were a mere force, not an army constantly backed by reinforcements and supplies from the back lines. If the operation was compromised, the ensuing bloodshed would leave no chance of triumph, a grim reminder to the potential consequences of every action.

Echelon adjusted his helmet and shook his head in an effort to clear his doubt. He was to stand watch, not stand guard. Military action in this region of desert wasteland had never been recorded, and they had no plans of being the first. The odds of armed combat tonight were next to none. He had no idea how long he would have to stand until he would witness the damn bird return from his mission. Echelon had no perception as to the remaining time of his position. They would either fulfill their task or receive a change in orders. Inquiring alternative courses of action would be pointless.

The night dragged on, the soft whistle of the dusty wind breaking the silent gaze of the watchmen.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** This will be my attempt at a military-themed story, but also to establish some background that will likely recur in future stories. Action will likely be mediocre at first, but will likely build up in future chapters where there hopefully will be an actual battle. I just have a bad habit of over-establishing prefaces, I guess. Please leave feedback, it always helps me improve. I plan to actually update this, as I have been planning to write this for quite a while, but I'll see where it goes. Hopefully it won't crash and burn.


	2. 2

It would be considered odd for a "sarge" to feel uneasy working on a deadly front; it was part of their unwritten job description. Yet Sergeant Major Mackowsky could only grow more puzzled as he tried to shake off the foreign, obstinate feeling that plagued his mind. It made him slightly irritated as his attempts to rid himself of his spontaneous discomfort brought no result, but his constant hellish deployments taught him that explosive anger was as lethal as the shrapnel from the physical blasts. Steeling his mind against the insecurity was no challenge, simply being a matter of mental discipline, a skill in which nearly all NCO's in his branch had a varying mastery thereof. Mackowsky reached for his logs, adjusted his helmet-mounted light and began to write in an effort to dismiss his intellectual stagnation. The sharp scratch of pen on paper drew his focus to an acute point. No serious trouble would come out of a quality check of his armored units, and the additional records may as well provide some assurance.

"Kingfisher 0-0, 0-1, 0-2. Report."

A small scuffle of activity was heard over the radio as the crews of the Siege-class tanks, designated 0, hastily restarted the systems and almost mechanically provided the systematic reports. "All systems online and undamaged. Structural integrity remains positive. Fuel supplies are sufficient, though 0-2 requires replacement of two worn cells."

The info was scribbled down as quickly as it was delivered, a simple matter of reflex. "Acknowledged; authorize fuel cell replacement of 0-2. 1-0, 1-1, 1-2, 1-3, report."

All four class-1 IFVs reported without mishap. Bearing a deceivingly simple design, these support vehicles carried the highest reputation of reliability and effectiveness of any rival carrier; their multipurpose role served as the backbone of most formal armored companies. That is, if there were any remaining and undissolved.

Mackowsky had already concluded that the unease did not stem from a sense of fear. In fact, however modest his forces were, they appeared to be much more fortuitous than expected. All ten vehicles lay in the shine of chemical luminescence, unharmed by any direct combat. Quite lucky indeed, considering how much ground they had traveled without any communication with main base. Finally given some rest, the engines ground to a calm silence as the dust settled likewise.

Ten vehicles. Certainly far from an army. It was reassuring that seven were in one piece, though the prospect of those numbers sustaining throughout the operation was admittedly unlikely, especially on this leg of the journey. Mackowsky wasn't too anxious, as losses were regular and unavoidable. If it came to the destruction of a unit and the loss of its inhabitants, he would worry about it at the time of the event. Right now he had no business stressing over the inevitable, so he simply ensured that necessary preparations would at least fight against the odds. He took a breath, about to call to inspection the final three unchecked vessels when he suddenly paused, pen wavering above his documents.

For a moment he was hesitant. He scanned along the paper again with the point of his instrument, eyes following keenly and verifying the uncertainty. This was odd. There was no mistake in his counting. All ten vehicles were in physical existence. Yet his logs only showed the labels and diagrams for seven: the three tanks and four support. Abruptly he let out the breath he was holding and a grin spread across his face. He tapped the end of his pen on his chin in amusement of his elementary mistake. The official logs only listed the standard vehicles. It was probably security protocol; as far as the world was concerned, neither the three models of the secret unit nor the technology it utilized existed. Yet there could be no denial, for Mackowsky had just come to recognize the composite metal armor he rested on. Ironically, he had forgotten about using the hull of a classified unit as the nearest convenient seat. The development of this Advanced Capability Assault Vehicle had only recently been declassified to the men who would fight alongside it. Or rather, the men who would escort it. Apparently some other division was to acquire these prototypes, and his purpose was to see to it.

In spite of its secrecy, no orders were given against using the ACAVs in combat by his superiors. Perhaps it was due to negligence, but very few things go unnoticed in mission preparation. It was more likely that Mackowsky was expected to present the engineers with a live battle test. Still, it was made it quite clear that they wanted their new toys to arrive intact, so the last thing that he intended was to purposely seek quarrel. He would rather disappoint the developers than risk the security of his fellows. The road was dangerous enough, and a share of conflict would present itself in due time; when it happened, then it would be on his order to deploy these tank hybrids.

He gave himself a mental kick. _Focus on the present, dammit!_ With a sigh of personal disappointment, he forcibly extracted himself from his world of future speculation. They were the vehicles he was trained to use, and to show a bit of love he decided to inspect them personally. It was a breach of protocol to log down classified information anyway, while he only trusted himself to do the job right. Some pilots haven't even received their basic training before the deployment notice.

The papers were shoved into his pack, and Mackowsky drew himself from idle position. Boots clanged on armor as he ducked under the threatening main cannon and opened a hatch on the side of the turret. Being a rather recent model, the assault vehicle would be able to remotely monitor and report nearly every possible status due to its intensive computer network. As convenient as this was, it was also the safest way to assess the surroundings. Just because its prototype low-emission nuclear reactor was named so didn't mean anybody who opened up the engine compartment would be safe from a nasty dose of radiation; it was placed behind several layers of metal for good reason. What Mackowsky didn't expect was the face that turned towards him as the door softly creaked open. The soldier had been sitting back comfortably, feet resting on a dashboard and a folded paper in his hand. When he noticed the presence of another, he straightened up his posture a bit, set down the letter he was writing and gave a small nod in acknowledgement.

"Hail, Mackowsky."

Mackowsky returned the gesture with the same brisk nonchalance. "And you, Olsen."

Olsen silently watched as his fellow field officer paced about the large interior to activate a set of switches and keys. A light beep and a mechanical hum meant the computer systems were at full capacity. As a result of this machine assistance, the crew needed to operate an ACAV numbered only two men; one being responsible for movement and firing while the other relayed intelligence to his copilot, assisted in targeting and established communication with the rest of the convoy. Olsen had worked with comms for nearly the entirety of his civilian and military career, so it was no surprise that he was given the newer role. This also meant that Mackowsky, sharing the same duties, would actively being relaying information between himself, Olsen, and anybody else in the network of vehicles. Although he made a conscious effort to keep his S-List clean, there were some operators who resented his authority, were too stubborn, or simply were quite difficult to talk to. Fortunately, Olsen was not on that list. If anything, the two NCO's had both earned their ranks together, in the same unit; inseparable was more or less the correct statement.

"Third button to the left runs the system diagnostic," Olsen called with a smirk at observing the clumsiness of Mackowsky. "You ought to know that by now, having so much _experience._ "

Mackowsky glared at him with the intensity of a small sun. "And I apologize for not being able to perform a pilot's task as perfectly as you, Olsen."

"A pilot's task? Didn't this same Mackowsky once lecture us on multifunctional dexterity? Maybe Mack should listen to himself more."

"Very funny. Would you like to give me a detailed report on all of our ACAVs, since you happen to know so much about them?"

Olsen shrugged. "Sure, I'll do it to free up your hands. But why don't you take the spare time to actually get some human interaction with the rest of your comrades?"

Mackowsky's shift of tone regarding this matter made it clear that the time for friendly jests was drawn to a conclusion. "Is everything stable? Is there anything that I am unaware of?"

"Don't worry about it, Mack," Olsen said with a tone of dismissal. "No mutinies yet, and based off what I see there won't be any for the rest of the road. Everybody's acting pretty chill, though the odd order you previously issued seems to be causing a small fuss."

Mackowsky's tone further darkened upon the last statement. "Nothing significant about that order... Just a matter of personal... preference."

Olsen sighed in mock resignation. "Come on, you're just being modest. You already have the respect of your men. You think a small change of doctrine will cause you to lose it? Nearly all of your troops are willing to follow you to hell and back, knowing you will gladly lead and command the charge as the soldier beside them. The different uniform and procedures can't change what you have established yourself to be. Everyone knows you're no butterbar. So why don't you accept it yourself?

A silence filled the air as Olsen's question was met without response. After a considerable lapse, Mackowsky finally turned away from the controls and fixed on Olsen with a slightly softened demeanor. "I'll try to make some conversation with the boys, but we're all uncertain if we are clear to proceed with our mission. Once you get a reliable report on vehicle status, go ahead and check in with the sentries we sent out. See if they have any updates on the whereabouts of Berkut. I need confirmation as soon as possible, so take the leisure to give all necessary orders to ensure it gets to me."

Olsen gave a brisk nod. "Consider it done."

"Wait. I'm making it clear that I have no purpose interrupt your writing, Sergeant. Finish up your letter, then report back to me. We're in no rush; nobody with half a brain would dare to engage us."

* * *

Olsen waited for the distinct creak of the entrance hatch and the following metallic echo resonating through the interior before betraying a hum of amusement. What letter was Mackowsky talking about? Had Olsen chosen not to play along with the situation, then perhaps Mack would simply figure that he was wasting time by attempting to inspect a vehicle that already had been logged and recorded; after all, who wrote a "letter" inside a parked combat vehicle? Even the tactical, strategic genius Mackowsky had proved himself to be made the most unexpected, blatant yet insignificant errors. It was an odd kind of comic relief, yet Olsen enjoyed it enough to let it run its course.

The silence of the dormant machinery drew Olsen back to his task. Mackowsky had only succeeded so far in activating the main computer; normally the pilots would be responsible for monitoring the detailed statistics of his vehicle, but soldiers of his caliber would not get very far by adhering to strictly normal expectations. Olsen rapidly flipped among the switches and touchpads, and soon the metal frame vigorously shuddered under huge power of its driving engine.

Rather than immediately running the systems check, Olsen returned to his personal station. After a few presses of various buttons, the intelligence and awareness computers he manned started their boot.

 _Vehicle uplinks established._

The familiar AI tone greeted him as the same text appeared on the visual control panel. All the registered vehicles that he could access were projected on the LED screen, and he cycled through them until only the designated Assault Vehicles were selected. After several more remote actions and confirmation messages, Olsen finally heard the faint, muffled rumbling of sub-nuclear engines from outside the hull that encased him.

Olsen wiped his satisfied smirk as he went live on the officer's comm line and radioed to Mackowsky while he finally initiated the collective systems report. "Incoming status reports from Kingfisher X-0 to X-2. Computer diagnostics running... Reporting no issues. Hull integrities uncompromised, navigations and comms online. All engine radiation is fully contained with no leakages detected. End report, Olsen out."

Olsen didn't expect Mackowsky to respond to his report, and subsequently terminated the transmission with an unnecessary haste. Not because faultless report usually deserved no comment or further action, but rather if Mack had a response, it would certainly be another stubborn inquiry as to how Olsen was able to remotely activate and control all the computer units from a single terminal and gather the report so quickly. Yet, under his breath, Olsen found himself smugly muttering his sole response to the matter. "Trade secret."

* * *

Even though the mission itself did not demand haste, a looming sense of boredom was spreading throughout the encampment. Even behind inches of composite plating, Olsen could feel it like an obscene itch. He thought about the sentries that had been placed in the surveillance mission, yet it was turning out more like a waiting mission. Whoever was unfortunate enough to receive the assignment certainly would know the true definition of boredom, idly standing by in a bloody _sitzkrieg._ Apparently Mack had either wanted a full report on ongoing operations, or simply had taken pity on the two restless guards. At least, he thought he saw two men volunteer the task. He didn't issue the order himself, but a communications expert always takes pride in extraneous situational knowledge. He had their CIR frequencies, but the combat-integrated radios didn't list the specific names. One of them was certainly a Specialist-likely an overwatch. Olsen recalled a name similar to his... Oellin? No... Owens. Yes, Specialist Owens. That was the name. He wasn't particularly sure about the other one; was Owen's partner even human? Olsen seldom worked with Pokemon, so he wouldn't know.

A soft beep confirmed the successful entrance onto the sentries' CIR frequency. Olsen verified the secure connection, then trusted himself to speak. - _Helmsman to Guardsmen, report and update, permission granted to terminate radio silence, over.-_ In casual Legion radio talk, a Helmsman like Olsen typically operated and maintained the CIR networks between infantry and vehicles, while a Guardsman was a technical-sounding term for an active sentry. Small details like the specific jargon were among many superficial attempts to appear as a sophisticated, government military force; perhaps it would be a futile endeavor, but it certainly had a positive effect on the morale of the quasi-contractors

A rough voice replied punctually and calmly o the sudden transition. - _Copy, Helmsman. No hostiles, no friendlies in sight, sir. No further progress towards objective since deployment, Helmsman. Guardsman over.-_

- _Maintain your duty, Guardsman. Owens, take note your immediate mission directives are to be updated shortly. Standby for further transmission, over.-_

 _-Negative, Helmsman. I do not identify as Specialist Owens, over.-_

Olsen hesitated. The received voice clearly belonged to a human, audible as the confused pause that set on the radio line. Had there been a change in the sentry shifts? He started to reach for another radio with the intent to inquire on the matter, but his pride stopped him. He would assess the situation himself. - _Guardsman, do not play games. Identify yourself immediately.-_

 _-The official Kingfisher squad logs identify me by my callsign. It would benefit you, Sergeant Olsen, to understand I work in a field of communication very similar to yours, yet composing an entirely different battlefield role. I hope you have figured that I am not human by this point. I will respond to the term Echelon, quite fitting for the job of a trained combat-reconnaissance lucario. At this moment, Guardsman Owens is on his CIR, listening intently to this conversation. Although he remains silent, his emotions clearly display a mixed mutual feeling of stifled laughter and bemusement. Thought you would want to know. Awaiting orders, Guardsman over.-_

Olsen felt a twinge of anger over the nerve of this operator. He quickly recomposed his emotions however, and all that remained was a defensive scoff.

- _Well played, Echelon. Now, since I have formally addressed you, it may also do you well to regard my initial orders on awaiting a change in directive. Helmsman, over.-_

 _-Copy that, Helmsman. Guard-smartass awaiting further command, over.-_

The more Olsen thought about it, the more peculiar the situation seemed. Despite his limited exposure to it, he knew what telepathic communication appeared as. The comms line affirmed that Echelon apparently was broadcasting over the radio frequency, rather than transmitting direct thoughts. _So, supposedly I am communicating with a biological creature capable of emitting military-grade encrypted signals through an otherworldly cybernet mechanical enhancement of some sort. Either that, or I have to deal with a goddamn talking Pokemon._

As unwritten as the job descriptions were, he was certain that this was not listed.

But as distracting as these occurrences were, the urgency of the matter was far more influential. Olsen steeled his voice in the authoritative manner he was familiar with, ensuring the emphasis on haste. - _We need updates on the status of the scouting mission you are assigned to watch for, and we need them now. Do you copy, Echelon? Now is a suitable time to prove to me your capabilities. You will establish contact with Berkut, then report back to me. Helmsman, over.-_

 _-I copy, Helmsman. Do you overrule previous orders to maintain zero communication with agent? Require a response to proceed. Guardsman, standing by.-_

 _-Affirmative, these are your current directives. Do it.-_

There was a silence on the other end of the line. Olsen figured that Echelon had shifted his focus to the mission, using whatever telepathic language to communicate with the airborne scout. The extent of the Pokemon's role in the operation was quickly becoming more clear. He was a huge strategic asset, not only possessing the ability to speak between several species but also likely could intercept enemy intelligence as it was transmitted. It gave Olsen a chilly feeling thinking that the same tactics could be used by the opposition; hopefully ignorance or a naïve morality would stop them from doing so.

- _Guardsman reporting, contact has been established. Total distance from unit is unconfirmed, uncertainty remains too high for accurate measure. Awaiting further orders, over.-_

The response came fairly quickly. Either the task was too easy, or just simple compared to the capabilities of the lucario. Likewise, Olsen attempted to hastily assess and finish the job.

 _-Acquire and give me the status of the mission. I need an estimated arrival time and the outcome report specifically, over.-_

As another brief pause came from the other side, Olsen imagined the series of questions and thought processes the two Pokemon would have in the absence of human conversation.

 _-Guardsman reporting again, Berk estimates the time of arrival to the 0100 range, give or take an hour. He's caught up in an unexpected storm, the source of the delay, but the documents are secure and the mission is a green light. Over.-_

 _-Excellent work. Notify your companion and retire back to camp. You've done enough tonight.-_ The transmission was subsequently opened to all channels, and throughout the camp all fell silent. _-Alright men, we need around two sentries on west post. The mission is a go, but we have covered enough ground for today. Instead, we now have the time and luxury to wait for a storm-tossed turkey to haul his feathered ass back here by 0100. As usual, the bets will be in the responsibility of "Sergeant" Mackowsky. Good luck Kingfisher, and get some rest. We depart at 0730. Olsen out.-_

At this point, Olsen cut off the broadcast and merely contented himself with sitting back in the lounge chair that he had installed as a custom addition. It came out of his own pocket, but cost was quite insignificant compared to the solid pay of the men through lucrative contracts. In general terms, well-paid men tend to be happy men. Kingfisher arguably operated on more of a basis on brotherhood and loyalty, but the hearty morale of his men reflected through the commotion and laughter as they jostled and jeered while moderately adhering to the military protocol that kept order throughout the camp. And all the while, Olsen could hear through the transmitted shouts the distinct accent of Mackowsky, fruitlessly trying to correct the soldiers about this new additional revision to their hierarchy. It was a shame that the humble ones are the ones that live in self-denial; when he would choose to accept the reality, then perhaps Lieutenant Mackowsky could perform to his full potential.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** I had some time this weekend, so guess where it was spent? Hopefully I will be able to write the other chapters as quickly as this one, as I am really excited for how this story will turn out. I actually had planned for this to be a one-shot, but I figured that readers would be less than willing to read such a long one-shot, so I guess I'm making this a chaptered story. I hope the plot won't turn out to be too stale and underdeveloped, but here's to the best. If you have anything to say, please drop a review, as they are the best way for me to improve my writing.

Thanks for reading, -Fy


	3. 3

It must have been the half a week's worth of distance covered in a single day that was dictating the general consensus of the camp. Granted, such distances may be a bit easier to cover with the high-powered engines throttling the reinforced wheels and tracks of the convoy, but after the restless day, the initial excitement due caused by the news was mostly directed to the awaiting rest in the bunks. Within moments of the report, the encampment was fully prepared for the wave of soldiers seeking a restful night. By now, most of the camp was finishing their evening routines, or in the case of the drivers, simply passed out cold. No doubt they had the most sleepless jobs in the unit; though it was frowned upon, anybody else could get away with a quick snooze.

So why was he still awake? Field Corporal Jakob Heinrich had just finished his routine nightly maintenance of the mighty Siege-class Main Battle Tank he commanded. Sure, the tank was a bit old, but it was the battle standard in armored warfare. As part of basic combat training, almost any soldier could effectively operate the Siege; for that same reason, it ensured only the best and intuitive men were permanently assigned to the vehicles. Heinrich personally saw to it that old _Retribution_ was always being adapted to the latest combat needs.

He had heard a particular rumor among the pilots that high command's engineers had taken the liberty to reassess the survivability of these tanks while under heavy fire, and had discreetly retrofitted the units tasked on this mission with this new automated system. Obviously, no one had confirmed it, but since the time Heinrich stepped inside he felt an odd sense of an extra layer of security. He hoped this new technology would actually prove to work in the heat of combat; if it failed, what good would it be but dead weight?

Heinrich disdainfully groaned under his breath. It wasn't even that he couldn't sleep; already he could feel the rush of adrenaline from commanding the full metal titan, a regular side effect from being a driver, fading quickly. It just didn't feel right waiting for such a trivial reason. Why would they choose to find a "diplomatic approach" for getting a few tanks and armored cars through a city? Heinrich would have liked to just taken all the units in the convoy, put them in a phalanx formation, then send them down the main street, challenging any local militia force to stand in their way. Getting the approval from a city official seemed a fantastic waste of time. A few stacks of pretty documents wouldn't stop armed conflicts. It simply would be inevitable, but Heinrich clearly was not one to give two damns about his reputation. Whoever ordered the negotiations certainly was, and that was stalling the entire group.

But if a grim showdown was looming around the next street, then Heinrich's tanks would be the spears of the phalanx; hundreds of tons of composite titanium fused with a hellstorm of shells and explosions. The thoughts of leading tomorrow's advance sent a fresh tingle down his spine. As dictated by the rest of the camp, it was time to rest up. For after the geniuses behind this whole operation would finish their diplomatic prancing, Heinrich would be awake, rested, and along with the rest of the operators, ready to kick into action.

For a moment he considered resting where he was, surrounded by thick walls of reinforced metal. It surely gave a sense of security, knowing he was much more protected than if he were surrounded by military-grade tent fabric. But in a sense, it was an iron coffin as well. For "safety" purposes, when not active the Siege's system shut off all ventilation with foreign air. _Seriously, when was the last time someone's tried to gas attack a goddamm tank?_ It frustrated Heinrich that fresh outside oxygen was treated as foreign air. The tank's interior oxygen supply would have to manually be activated, but using it in such a purpose made it seem unusually selfish. Negligently dozing off without the air circulation never reportedly was the result of any casualties, but Heinrich had no intention of being the first.

His thoughts ceased as he abruptly stood up, suddenly alert. He swore he had heard somebody outside his tank, or at least in the general direction. Slowly, in a crouching position, Heinrich deliberately inched forward and reached for his personal defense weapon. As silently as he could, he checked the weapon's magazine and disengaged the safety. He had read about some war conventions that protected drivers like him under a non-combatant status in certain situations, so apparently his weapon was meant for "personal defense" situations strictly. But in this day, did anybody follow these silly customs of war? Sure, it looked aggressive and would certainly forfeit any delicate protection under international convention, but Heinrich would gladly choose his .45 Osmium-jacketed bullets over some measly pistol round. It could also prove a tactical advantage, as hostile intentions would not think a "defenseless" driver would be carrying a high-powered submachine gun that flirted with the lines of ethicality.

So for now, Heinrich thought, he held two elements of surprise. Surely the unknown person expect the vehicles to be abandoned; why else would he slink about amidst them? He replayed his plan in his head until it seemed foolproof. When the footsteps appeared to lead away from the tank, Heinrich would quickly jump from the hatch. Don't give the enemy time to react. Drop him with a quick burst center mass. Easy plan, easy kill.

It seemed forever before the steps seemed to move away. He had been holding his breath impatiently, eager to spring into a shooting stance. When the moment finally came, however, Heinrich could not be more grateful of his momentary hesitation. His lack of firefight experience may as well have prevented an incident; in the moment of stagnation, he saw the familiar dark colors of a friendly uniform. Softly, he let a sigh of relief and let his weapon drop to his side. The soldier he nearly shot at didn't take much concern to the near incident. He appeared to be wandering among the sands quite aimlessly, a Chemlight active and strapped to his vest. While he clearly acknowledged Heinrich's presence, he didn't seem to surprised, as if he knew and was expecting it all along.

Heinrich emerged fully from his vehicle, his boots making soft crunches with the ground. He raised his hand above his helmet, and gave a quick gesture of greeting.

The other soldier returned the greeting and approached Heinrich with a casual pace. While his light did identify his friendly colors, it did not provide very much detail to the wearer compared to the brightly illuminated range around the light. He stopped a few paces away, where Heinrich could note specific details much more clearly, before drifting off into good-humored raillery. " _Still up, Heinrich? Is it not a bit past your bedtime?"_

Heinrich was able to recognize his verbal combatant quite instantly by his appearance, so the telekinetic speech did little to put him off. When his assailant drew too close, Heinrich gave him a light shove, driving him back before he worded his response.

"With an IQ that's supposed to 'surpass' our charts, you certainly aren't playing your cards very intelligently. Look at you, Ech! The wind subsides, the sun sets, the engines halt; your post duty ends, and you still walk around in full combat uniform and full survival packs. If you don't manage to catch a bullet or heroically perish in a dramatic explosion, you might as well succumb to dehydration. Wouldn't that be an embarrassing way to go."

 _"Dehydration?"_ Echelon grinned as he unhooked his canteen from the side of his rucksack and tossed it as a boy would smugly toss an apple. _"Isn't the point of a survival pack to prevent that?"_

 _"Anyway,"_ continued Echelon as he rummaged through the endless compartments, _"I'd offer you some sweets, but I guess your folks taught you never to eat before bed."_

Heinrich eyed the standard aluminum MRE packaging offered to him, crudely and hastily marked with a variety of bright colors, like a toddler's lunchbox put together at an undersupplied budget factory. Though his facial expressions clearly bore the _I'm disappointed in you._ expression, he nonetheless opened the tin and took a single piece. The sugary candy satisfactorily broke apart under his teeth, a feeling he had not remembered for quite a while.

"So," Heinrich managed between bites, "do I want to know how you got this?"

A wider grin spread across Echelon's face. _"I thought you'd ask that. Short answer, probably not. Long answer, you don't have a choice, because I'm telling you anyway._

 _"Got most of it back in my earlier years in service. Back then they'd let me off my uniform periodically, part of the 'off the leash' program that psychologists insisted they'd enforce. There were plenty of parks near my service locations, plenty of kids. Let's just leave it that the kids thought I was a pretty damn cute thing. Still haven't finished the candy up to this day."_

Echelon studied his lone audience's reaction for a moment, then shrugged nonchalantly. _"Doesn't seem to work anymore. Kids just tend to run and scream now."_

"Well then. Thanks for the information, I guess. I needed that. But what I really do need now is to get some rest. I'd insist that you do too, but I don't have too keen an interest for talking to a wall."

 _"At least I'm responding."_

"And I should appreciate that? Say, why are you still on patrol? Weren't you dismissed from your post almost an hour ago?"

Echelon shrugged once more, casually slinging off his bulky pack and set it by his feet. _"That's true. Strictly speaking, I'm not necessarily on patrol either. I was going to settle in eventually, just felt like taking a bit of a walk though."_ With a distant glance, he drew and inspected his sidearm. There was a faint clicking sound as he pulled back the slide, and in a fluid motion, caught the cartridge as it sprung out.

 _"Besides, I got promises to keep,"_ he added, flipping the sleek pistol round and catching it as if it were a coin. _"And one can never have too much firepower when it comes to defense."_

Heinrich uncertainly glanced around at the eerily quiet surroundings. "Well, if you find anything to shoot at, best of luck to you then. Big day tomorrow, I'm hitting the bunks now. Guess I'd suggest the same to you, but walls are notorious for immobility."

Echelon merely raised an eye and nodded in silent acknowledgement. The tents were not positioned far from the vehicle lot, and whenever he glanced back he could see the Chemlight-illuminated figure of Echelon, leaning against the tank and toying with his pistol. Heinrich figured that the lucario didn't enjoy sleeping in the barrack tents any more than he did, but at least for the corporal, the inherent doubting of the old statement "safety in numbers" would have to be ignored. The barren, lifeless desert may have brought the illusion of a peaceful journey, but the urban hell of the next day would be closer to a war than anything.

And from his countless experiences, war certainly never slept.

* * *

 **Author's Note** : Feedback is always appreciated. I've definitely found more of a motivation to finish up my current stories, and I'll make sure to keep my focus. As always, reviews are the best way for me to improve as a writer, and any constructive criticism would have my greatest thanks.

-Fy


	4. 4

"Promises..."

"What a strange concept," Echelon mused without much thought. With another practiced motion he released the pistol's magazine and pulled back the slide once more, deftly catching the second cartridge and replacing them in the magazine. He pointed the pistol at the ground and disengaged the safety. The hammer made an empty click as it fell upon nothing. With a simple release the slide came off without effort, and Echelon inspected the three parts cautiously. The moonlight reflected off the chrome plating of the signature ASR model. Accuracy, Strength, Reliability, the company claimed, and the sidearm certainly did not fall short of its expectations. He gave a polish to the partially disassembled firearm, before it was quickly reassembled and returned to its holster.

But as strange as the promises were, it was the reason Echelon was still awake. As much as he would prefer to use the time to rest, he would not risk failing his word of honor. So, he simply planned to wait.

He gave a quick glance to his watch. 0030. If nobody was late, then he would not have much longer to wait.

0050\. Echelon felt his nearing presence long before visual contact. Readjusting his gear, he stood and walked to the extra guard on sentry post.

" _I got this. Wait back there, I'll be done in a moment,"_ Echelon stated as he gave a tap to the sentry's shoulder. The young trooper turned around and gave a hesitant nod, observing the full battle gear of the Pokemon compared to his light camouflaged fatigues, but seemed glad to walk closer to the bright shelter of the camp.

The desert sky was relatively clear, and it wasn't long before Echelon noticed a series of blue lights flickering in the horizon. He opened the CIR frequency to field command once more and reported in, though he still tentatively watched the faint dots in the night air.

- _Helmsman, I have a visual. I repeat, I have a visual.-_

The pattern of the lights seemed to oscillate unsteadily, as if the air were rough. But as the scout drew closer, he quickly lost altitude and nearly crashed, but managed to land with a painful-looking tumble and slide through the cold sand. Echelon quickly ran over, albeit trying not to laugh.

"Berkut, you alright?" He inquired in the Pokemon tongue, offering him a hand.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks, Ech," the fearow responded, though he grunted in both pain and effort as he tried to rise.

"Stop moving. You're not fine." The humor instantly faded as Echelon scanned over his wounds before rummaging through his rucksack.

"I'm telling you, it's nothing," Berkut tried to argue, though his avian figure was clearly tense.

"You're bleeding. Now take off your pack."

He tried to protest, but the lucario made it clear there was no more question. Echelon glanced at the several deep gashes on and near the base of his neck, his bloodstained feathers matted and torn.

"This might hurt. You need a moment?"

The fearow shook his head, but visibly flinched as Echelon firmly wrapped the medicated dressing around the wounds. His paws began to feel sticky as fresh blood began to flow from the lacerations. Despite his rigorous tolerance training, the fearow sharply inhaled and gritted his beak as he felt a sudden, stabbing pain in his back, different from the one he felt from the cuts. Craning his neck, he caught a glimpse of the cold steel of a needle. As the sting faded with the dull pain of the gashes, he released his breath with an air of indignation, noticing the anxious look on the lucario's face.

"Don't look at me like you're my mother. I'll live, you really ought worry about me later. It's the mission that's important." sighed in exasperation. "The papers should be in the pack. Main compartment."

"This it?" asked Echelon, searching and holding up an envelope with a small seal.

Berkut nodded. "Everything's in there."

"Good. Anything high command needs to know?"

"I think. Governor wanted to let us pass under neutral or friendly terms, but others felt they still needed the demilitarized zone or something. There was this organization though, dressed funny but was equipped with some gear. Definitely not military, but they had some freaks who would somehow communicate with us, even the non-telepathic ones. Damn unsettling if you ask me."

The lucario seemed to understand. "Sounds like Rangers to me. Not a good sign. What did they say?"

"Something about how the local forces would not stand to an offense to their pacts. Maybe a religious cult, but not too certain myself. Mentioned something about a militia and the oath of the ancients."

Echelon nodded, though his actions betrayed a feeling of tension as he put the documents in the pocket of his armor. He signalled the original sentry to take back his post. Berkut rose to follow, but stumbled and nearly fell to the sand again. Immediately his fellow soldier took a step towards him, but he quickly raised a wing to stop him.

"Got some damage to the power assist. Just give me a hand walking over here."

The fearow managed to place his titanium-lined wing over the shoulder of Echelon, who effortlessly braced against it in a practiced maneuver. Ruggedly, they walked until the camouflaged shapes of the encampment soon were looming around them. The lucario stopped in front of a particular tent, the small open windows projecting flashes of orange and yellow light onto the surroundings. The muffled sound of cutting and scraping metal further eliminated any suspicion as Echelon nodded to the weary avian. "Technician's still up and working, by the looks of it. He's expecting you. Get your gear in order. I'll see you in the morning."

"Wait, hold on," Berkut called rather abruptly as the lucario turned to leave. "Do you ever... just..."

His thought drifted off as he saw a blank expression turn face him.

"Go on, I'm listening," Echelon stated, though he clearly took notice on the sudden turn the question took.

"Well," Berkut continued, though taking a considerably slower pace, "do you ever think... think that we're just not meant for this sort of full time thing?"

"But I don't mean just us in particular, I've been thinking about everyone in general," the fearow quickly added. "I just don't think that life is all about training, warfare, operations and all that. We weren't born hunters, so why do we take the effort to perfect ourselves at it?"

To Berkut's surprise, the lucario simply laughed, a hearty chuckle, rather than anything sarcastic or malicious. "That's a great sentiment right there, Berkie. Don't worry, I think I know where you're going at. After all, it was the reason you were both late and injured, am I correct?"

The avian felt heat rise to his face, and realized he was starting to blush, something he knew only female humans are expected to do. Immediately shame faded as he angrily scolded himself. _Get your shit together, Berkut. You're a soldier, not a stupid schoolgirl._

"Don't call me that," he grunted, but his voice sounded a lot higher than it should be. Though he attempted to suppress his physical reaction, Echelon still seemed to see through him and easily detect his embarrassment. "Let's be real," the lucario continued, "when you asked me to be there personally I knew something was up. But when you finally landed, I could have no more doubt. After all, bad weather doesn't claw you like that when it gets angry, right?"

Echelon observed the fearow's silence before sighing and taking on a slight reassuring tone. "You shouldn't be ashamed. Even the best soldiers get distracted, get hurt. In fact, you have it worse, with all these instincts and mental stuff built into you. Not even the best training can fully suppress those, but you didn't fail. Your mission's done."

Berkut finally relaxed his posture, but still seemed quite uncomfortable. "So you knew this whole time?"

Echelon scoffed. "Of course I did. But you expected that, didn't you? It's why you asked me to be there personally?"

"Yeah. Just checking."

"No need to check. Couple days ago, saw other large birds start to get restless and all during a deployment. Very territorial and aggressive, even had to call it off. Only one time of the year that happens. So, considering that and the damage done, what exactly did you do? Did you get too close to a show-off display, or actually went far enough to go after one of their females?"

In substitution of a verbal response, Berkut merely glared premeditated murder at the lucario, who gave another small chuckle.

"Alright, don't answer that. But at least tell me it was never a fair fight for them, with your gear and all."

"What do you expect? Most of them were young braviary. Chests puffed in pride, full of themselves and their massive egos, just looking for a fight." The fearow raised his left wing, examining some bent bracing and metal where it absorbed a heavy hit, and sighed in distaste. "But this exo's more of an agility type, long travel rather than combat durability. Still dropped half of them before they got it together. Got jumped by some older ones from behind though. A few scratches, a couple of damaged joints, but they all backed off eventually."

Echelon grinned with satisfaction. "Always good to hear, my friend. You still need anything else? Or can I go on with my task?"

"Well actually," Berkut pointed out, "you did an excellent job of dodging my question."

The lucario raised his hands in surrender. "Okay. No more dodging. I promise."

Berkut nodded in agreement, listening. "Go on. I know you are aware of my question."

Echelon paused, thinking. "Well, you know I hate these animal instincts. We both know we're far from this animal nature of ours. But for you, you're far too important to this operation, but as soon as we finish you'll be issued all the extended leave you need to, you know, do whatever you want to do. It's not like you'll be too late for the best part of the season eh?"

* * *

 **Author's Note:** I had some fun writing this one. Hope you enjoy it, I feel I'm losing interest but I still plan to finish this for anyone who happens to actually have read this far.


End file.
